


Let it be a tragedy of love and glory

by RavenXavier



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, M/M, each story will be tagged at the beginning of the chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:09:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27995058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenXavier/pseuds/RavenXavier
Summary: Eight small stories set in different universes.Day 1: Prequel to Blackwood Investigations. In the middle of his investigation, Jon meets familiar eyes in the crowd. A Noir AU.Day 2: A conversation about taxes takes an interesting turn. Pure decadent fluff.Day 3: Elias wishes he still only felt hatred for the man chosen to bring his God to the world. A Cult AU.Day 4: Jon pays a visit to Elias, if only because he has to (perhaps because he wants to). A HP AU.Day 5: At the end of a party, Elias gently sets to remind Jon who he belongs to (as if Jon could ever forget.)Day 6: Elias only ever wants to help Jon. Even through unconventional means. Season 2, canon-compliant.Day 7: Jon flees monsterhood by becoming the plaything of another monster. Jon/Peter AU.Day 8: In his own way, Jonah is trying to bring back some happiness into his Archive's eyes.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Elias Bouchard | Jonah Magnus/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Peter Lukas/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 42
Kudos: 72





	1. City of Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhyNotFly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhyNotFly/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Blackwood Investigations](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24858856) by [artefact_storage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/artefact_storage/pseuds/artefact_storage), [WhyNotFly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhyNotFly/pseuds/WhyNotFly). 
  * Inspired by [A Nice Neighborhood to Have Bad Habits In](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23191072) by [artefact_storage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/artefact_storage/pseuds/artefact_storage), [j_quadrifrons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/j_quadrifrons/pseuds/j_quadrifrons). 



> This is the result of me wanting to make one of my favourite person in the world very happy, and I hope it works and you like all of this, darling <3 ; Happy Hanukkah. 
> 
> Many thanks forever to the wonderful, amazing HermaeusMora for betareading, as ever! Special thanks to J_Quadrifrons for reading this story in particular, since they're so familiar with the background of it.
> 
> Title of this anthology (that makes me sound so pretentious) is from "Villainous things", by James Shayfer.
> 
>  **Warnings for this chapter:** Minor spoilers for Blackwood Investigations; description of an eye injury;  
> So much of this universe belongs to the amazing server of Artefact Storage.

Stepping on stage is a spur of the moment decision. The bar is too crowded and Jon’s definitely not tall enough to be able to see the man he's chasing after. If he's here at all. Jon desperately needs him to be. If he isn't, then it's the last of his obvious leads to find Gerry, or Gertrude Robinson, and he's invested too much of himself to stop looking _now_. He will not let Gerry's disappearance go without answers. Gerry might have not cared, but Jon does. Too many people in this city fade every day, out of the streets and consciousness. Whatever happened, Jon will know. Jon will save Gerry, and if he can't, then — then at least he will carry his memory, remember his story, store all of Gerry's adventures and smiles and will not let him become yet another unsolved mystery. It was a promise they'd made each other long ago, and Jon is, if nothing else, a man of his word. 

Old instincts from younger, easier days lead him to mess with his hair a little as he grabs the microphone. The room is filled with chatting and laughter, no one apparently realizing just how out of place Jon looks in the spotlight. The pianist stares at him, bafflement mixed with a hint of amusement, and when Jon licks his lips and tilts his head, humming softly to set the tone and melody, he follows easily, letting notes fall in a smooth, neverending rhythm. 

Jon goes for a simple song. He knows the lyrics by heart, and they roll over his tongue like they'd just been waiting to be let out. He remembers singing this to Georgie, long ago; crooning it against her skin to make her laugh, dropping an octave or three — it seems appropriate for now. Let his body sing a memory, while, at last, he has a proper good view of the whole room. There is still way too much smoke, and the light is dim, but the man he has come to find is supposed to be distinctive. 

_Red hair_ , the nurse he'd talked to had said, _and his eye... his eye, it's. It's melted. It looks like molten candle wax._

But when Jon's gaze sweeps over the room, it's not a melted eye he meets at all. Instead, just as he intones the chorus, he is caught by two bright, sharp grey eyes that almost make him stumble. For a moment he thinks he must be dreaming — it’s too much of a coincidence, and if it's _not_ a coincidence, then it must be a trap. But the eyes don't disappear. Nor does the handsome, angular face of Elias Bouchard, right there in the middle of the crowd, fixed on him with a curious expression that, if Jon were full of himself, he'd call _impressed_.

Jon's mouth says _and oh, how I love you_ and he swears he catches the shadow of a smile crossing Elias' lips. The flush is slow to creep down Jon's neck, but soon he feels too warm, and he abruptly looks away, trying to breathe through the song, trying to hear the notes of the piano through the sudden drumming of his heart. _He's not important_ , he tells himself. _He's not who you came looking for. Focus, Jonathan._

It's too late, of course. He has met Elias Bouchard much too often of late, and he knows exactly how impossible it is to ignore him, especially once he's noticed you. Jon doesn't need to see him to know he is being watched — in fact, it feels as if the whole room has suddenly shifted its center point. He is left under the scrutiny of a hundred invisible eyes, as he sings _oh my dear, dear, darling love, how dull is the world without you_ and it's too intense. He feels dizzy with the attention, as ever, unable to say whether the twisted feeling in his stomach is fear or anticipation. 

He tries to chase the sensation away by staring deeper into the bar. He is here for a man. Another man. Red hair. Melted eye. Red hair. Melted eye. _Will you stay with me, oh my dear, dear darling love, will you choose me_ Red hair. Melted eye. Elias, Elias, Elias — 

Red hair. Melted eye. _There_.

"Dear love," Jon rasps, excited now. The man is moving through the tables, a glass of something swirling with smoke in hand. He's broader than Jon anticipated — he's glad he had the good sense to strap a small knife to the inside of his jacket before coming here — and his eye truly looks like dripping wax. From across the room, you could almost believe it is still hot, bubbling and popping against his eyebrow.

The song is almost done. Jon tries not to lose sight of him, and startles when the man abruptly glances at him. He doesn't know what happens then. One second everything seems normal, and the next the man is spitting in his glass, looking furious, and throws it on the ground. Smoke rises up higher, thicker. Somewhere to the side, a woman screams, then another, then it's a cacophony of yells and Jon lets go of the microphone with a swear, jumping off the stage as fast as he can. 

_The back door,_ whispers his intuition. Is it his intuition? No matter. He runs through agitated suits and dresses, throwing apologies as he pushes a few on the way. The door is left unguarded and still swung open when he arrives there. The handle is so hot it almost burns him, and he hisses as he steps into the alleyway behind. It's a small thing, barely a few meters of road before it makes way for the main street, where cars and people are mingling in that indescribable, joyful mass that is the City on a Friday night. Even it cannot escape that particular feel, no matter its otherwise quite grey and quiet atmosphere. 

As soon as he realizes this, Jon knows that he's lost him. There is no way he'll be able to know if the man turned left or right, if he took a cab or if there had been someone waiting for him. Worst, he is left with the nagging feeling that the man had _known_. That it had somehow only taken a glance for him to understand that Jon was here for him and him alone. 

"God _damnit_."

Jon could cry. Instead he leans against the cold wall of the alleyway, shoulders slumped in defeat and anger, and shakily pulls a cigarette out of his breast pocket. The adrenaline is still rushing through his ears and his blood, and it takes him three tries to light it up. He brings it to his lips and inhales the smoke, deep and slow, before breathing it out with a heavy sigh. 

_You were probably much better at this than me_ , he thinks at Gerry bitterly. 

When had he started to use past tense? God, he misses him. He wishes he could — 

"What a charming performance that was, Mr Sims."

Jon breathes in too much smoke at once and immediately starts to cough. His eyes sting. He can only glance as Elias steps through the door, looking the picture of unobtrusive wealth and confidence. 

"What are you doing here?" Jon snaps, unhappy to have been caught by surprise twice in the same night, and embarrassed by his own state of dress. 

"Discovering all the secrets you've been holding out on me, it would seem," Elias answers, eyes alight with amusement. 

"Did you _follow me_?" Jon asks with a frown. 

"And here I thought I was the one with the _unmeasurable ego_."

Jon's cheeks warm again. Trust Elias not to forget words he had told him weeks ago. He straightens up awkwardly, feeling prickly. "Well, you can't blame me for asking," he says. "It's not exactly the sort of place where you expect the head of the Magnus family to just... _hang out._ "

"Must I remind you again that we have a common goal, my dear? Surely it's not surprising we end up in the same places."

Perhaps, Jon thinks. He doesn't know if he believes Elias, or if he just wants to. But if his evening is ruined, he can't say he's...utterly displeased that he's encountered him. Perhaps he is even getting used, deep down, to these little run-ins, these little games Elias seems to enjoy playing, appearing when Jon expects him least. It's quite foolish of him, of course. Utterly ridiculous.

"Well, I'm afraid we both wasted this one," he mutters, looking at Elias slowly through his eyelashes. 

"Mmh," Elias says. "I quite disagree."

"Shocker," Jon snorts, and brings his cigarette back to his lips. 

He doesn't have time to take another hit; Elias' hand curls around the cigarette and slowly drags it out of his mouth. Jon gapes at the sheer audacity of the gesture. He watches, baffled and indignant, as Elias crushes it casually against the wall, and lets it fall to the ground. 

"This is a terrible habit," he tells Jon very softly. His fingers dance over the length of Jon's throat, lingering over his sudden racing pulse. "And you have the loveliest voice I've ever heard. I'd hate to see it ruined."

"It's not your decision to make," Jon manages to say. 

"Ha." Elias leans closer, the hem of his jacket brushing over Jon's helpless, empty hand. "Should I trust you to make good decisions for yourself, Jonathan?"

In a flash, Jon can hear the sharp, wise accent of his grandmother at the back of his mind. She'd used to say, when he was still a reckless child, _One day, you will meet Trouble, Jonathan, and I swear you won't even try to run from it._

In the world they live in, there is very little more that screams trouble like Elias Bouchard; Jon is not an idiot. Even since he's begun to follow Gerry's ghostly footsteps, he's slowly unraveled more and more horrors which take the shape of the monsters of his childhood — but in such mild and inconspicuous disguises you could almost be fooled, if you didn’t look too closely. In the City, dangerous people wear suits and smell like fine cologne, and if Jon truly wanted to keep his peace, the best thing to do would be not to indulge in Elias' obvious, intoxicating seduction. 

But, of course, he's already done very poorly in that regard; and if he has to drown in trouble, then it feels only natural, perhaps even desirable, to drown in Elias' eyes. 

Jon's gran had not been wrong about him at all, unsurprisingly.

"I haven't made one single good decision since I've met you," he retorts to Elias, feeling a little light-headed, and grasps Elias' collar to kiss him. Elias laughs against his mouth, pressing him deeper against the wall, and as Jon utterly forgets about anything else that isn't every point of connection between them, he finds that he is, in fact, smiling himself.


	2. Anti-Beholding AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What are you even working on right now? It's Friday."
> 
> "Taxes."
> 
> "Good lord, Elias."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: This AU was also born in Artefact Storage, at least I'm pretty certain of it. So all the kudos to this server once more. 
> 
> For context: "Anti-Beholding AU" refers to the story where Elias, quite against himself, actually falls so deeply in love with Jon he does his absolutely upmost to keep him away from the Eye; whether that works or not is another question, especially as in this AU, the Eye is, as the kids say, _really fond of Jon_. 
> 
> **Warning(s) for this chapter** : pure fluff. Absolute softest jonelias in the land.

Jon knows he's won the moment Elias moves back to allow him to sit on his lap. He settles in smugly, though his rather childish joy subdues when he notices once more the dark shadows under his boyfriend's eyes. He brushes his thumb over the tired lines carved in his face and frowns. 

"You work too much," he chides. 

Elias raises his eyebrows. "Do I? Quite the statement coming from you."

"You should be worried if _I'm_ the one saying it," Jon retorts. "What are you even working on right now? It's Friday."

"Taxes."

"Good lord, Elias."

"Yours actually," Elias continues, unperturbed. "You do realize now that you're not working for the Institute anymore — officially that is — you've got to fill your forms differently, don't you?"

"Well, I would have," Jon snarks, "but it seems you're having all the fun without me."

The corner of Elias' lips lift up. "Such impertinence, when I'm trying to help you along —"

"Don't pretend you don't love this," Jon snorts. "Whatever shall you do when we marry? Only one form to fill again. I wouldn't want you depressed over the lack of paperwork."

It's only when he grins down at Elias that he realizes Elias is staring; properly staring, those deep, intense stares when he forgets to blink, and that still sometimes send a chill of _something_ down Jon's spine. Discomfort or curiosity, he's never been able to fully figure out. These days, Jon knows Elias well enough to understand it means he's done something that Elias hadn't anticipated, so he frantically goes back to what he's just said and — oh.

"Oh." he says, inadequately. "Well."

"When?" Elias repeats after a beat, slow and quiet. 

Jon flushes deep. "It doesn't seem _so_ outlandish an idea," he says defensively. "We've been together for four years, we've been basically living together for three of those — we're raising a cat!" 

"It's quite yours, my dear."

"She's lived here for longer than I have," Jon points out, then stills. "Are you distracting me?"

"I wouldn't dare," Elias tells him. "This is an incredibly insightful proposal." 

"There's no need to be mean about it."

"I'm not." Elias' hand moves to rest on Jon's thigh, stroking it gently. "You do have a way of putting things in perspective."

He's smiling, but something in his voice makes it impossible for Jon to relax. He hates it when Elias does this. _Closes off._ Pretends he is still here with him, having a conversation, when his mind is long gone to places Jon cannot follow, no matter how much he yearns to. How he wishes he could just lean his temple against Elias', close his eyes and _know._ Know what he is thinking, feeling, seeing — Jon is so very hungry for all the secrets Elias still insists on keeping from him. 

But there's no point in wishful thinking; annoyingly secretive or not, Elias is still the man he loves, and he doesn't want the evening to turn sour because he was an impulsive idiot again.

"We don't have to," he tells Elias. "I don't care about it."

"Liar," says Elias softly, fondly. 

"Yes, well, I care about it far less than I love you," Jon corrects himself. 

Under the dim light of the desk lamp, for a brief moment, Elias looks much younger than he is. Almost vulnerable in the naked tenderness that passes through his eyes. Jon really does love him so much. He is already bending his neck when Elias' other hand comes to rest over his jaw, and they meet halfway to kiss. If _this_ is the real distraction, it's working well enough, Jon will admit. Elias has always been an excellent kisser; much more patient than Jon in those matters, and quick to adapt to Jon's moods. They trade slow, feather-like kisses, until Elias murmurs: 

"I suppose it's as you say. It truly isn't such an outlandish idea."

Jon's heart skips a beat. "How romantic," he manages to say. 

"Must I remind you already who brought up the subject over taxes?" 

"Yes, well, about _that_ —" 

It's utterly petty of Jon to turn around and shut the computer down.

But it makes Elias chuckle in surprise, and when he looks back at him, he gets swept into another kiss, Elias' fingers carding slowly through his hair. It uncurls something warm in Jon's stomach as he lets his own hands wander over Elias' shoulders, absent-mindedly playing with the collar of his shirt. 

"I've spoiled you," Elias tells him afterwards.

"Mmmh." Jon nuzzles his cheek. "You might have. Too late for you now."

"Yes." Elias' voice is quiet again; pensive. "My dear Jonathan."

He brings Jon closer to him, until they're properly hugging. Jon buries his nose in his neck, fully relaxing into Elias' tight embrace, and thinks he could easily fall asleep like this, if his mind wasn't still trying to parse through the emotional roller-coaster he'd just been through. _Are we engaged then?_ he wants to ask Elias. _Is this happening?_ The thought makes him almost giddy. He thinks of the Institute's next fundraiser, of Elias saying _This is Jon, my husband,_ and though he'd never realized it until a few minutes ago, he _wants it._

Against him, Elias exhales at the same time as he does. "I'll handle the proposal," he says. "I believe I'd like to do something special for you."

 _Of course you do,_ Jon thinks, but his throat is too full of happiness to conceivably say it out loud. He settles for rubbing his cheek against Elias' skin again. Elias' lips ghost over his forehead. 

"You win, in any case, you tempting thing," he adds. "I'm quite decided on taking you to bed now."

Jon grins. "Pity," he teases, doing his best to imitate Elias' tone. "I'm quite comfortable here."

It's utterly predictable, when Elias sighs and brings up his arms under him to make sure Jon doesn't fall when he gets up. Jon holds on to him tightly, wrapping his legs around Elias' waist, and still calls Elias a show off, despite the fact that this little trick of his had always had a very pleasant effect on him. 

Together, they leave Elias' office behind; the invisible weight on Jon's back lessens, and everything is well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are interested by more in this AU, I have another short story in the same universe (gifted to the same person, how odd :p).  
> It's called "Indulgences" and you can find it [ here ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22000228)


	3. Cult AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _We could be happy._ The thought is too loud in Elias' brain. _We could be outside, in my world, together, equals —_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is half due to Artefact storage AGAIN; so. Credits to them all.
> 
> Context of the AU: All his life, Elias has been the golden child of a cult worshipping the Eye; he thought he would be the one being offered the chance to bring their God to the world, except the cult found someone better: Jonathan Sims, who grew up outside of the cult after his parents fled it and he was brought up by his grandmother. Elias does not take is so well the fact he's meant to be his servant. Jon does not take so well the fact he's been kidnapped by a bunch of people who took away all his autonomy. They fall in love. 
> 
> **Warning for this chapter** : Depiction of flesh sewing! Non consensual body-modification! Cult mentality! Implied kidnapping! Could be read as Stockholm/Lima syndrome. 
> 
> If anything else needs to be warned for, do tell me.

"Stay _still_ ," Elias snaps, tugging on Jon's hair sharply. 

Jon's eyes flutter, a few tears rolling down his cheeks, but he settles back in the chair, holding his own wrist so tightly his knuckles are white. Elias misses feeling smug and vindictive about it. It had been so much easier to hate Jon. To purposefully be meaner in the hope that, eventually, everybody else would see what Elias did: someone that did not belong amongst them. Someone certainly too weak to handle the weight of their God on his shoulders for the rest of eternity. 

Now Jon's gaze has gone from terrified to softly resigned, and Elias finds himself cupping his cheek gently, tilting his head up to better see what he is doing. 

Handling the needle has become as familiar as any other mundane task, these days. Elias abhors the idea of eternal servitude — to hell with the honour of it, and he stands by the fact neither he nor Jon have been assigned the roles they were meant to play — but he's grown used to this. Wake Jon. Wash Jon's body. Brush Jon's hair. Carefully cut the threads holding Jon's lips perpetually closed, wet his mouth with blessed water, and then sew it back shut for the rest of the day. It's almost soothing, especially since Jon has stopped fighting it so much. 

Jon whimpers as the needle passes through his lower lip. Elias' chest is too tight. "There's no point in being so dramatic," he tells him, because it's easier than examining whatever it is he's feeling. "Soon you won't even bleed anymore."

_Is that meant to be comforting?_

Jon is staring blankly somewhere above Elias' head, but Elias still feels like his chest is being pried wide open, all his emotions spread like a buffet for his God to be. It's elating and sends a shiver of fear down his spine that he can hardly repress. 

"Yes," he answers the unspoken demand honestly before biting his tongue, annoyed. 

_Well, you're bad at it,_ his God to be snarks mentally, because Jon is still an ungrateful brat deep down.

Elias tells himself he's going to ignore it. Indifference, he's found, works better on Jon than outright dislike. No matter how rough Elias had been at the beginning, Jon had tried twice as hard to convince him that he wasn't the chosen one they'd all been waiting for — that, Elias did not doubt — and therefore that Elias should help him escape. Once or twice, Elias had thought about killing him for the sheer affront of it. It didn't _matter_ that Elias hated him or hated this. Jon was granted the most important and powerful role one could dream of, and he kept crying like a child about not having _asked_ for it. 

It was only when, instead, he'd decided to pretend as if he couldn't hear Jon at all, that Jon had truly started to subdue. Of course by then the Elders had already decided their God to be couldn't keep his human voice, which made it easier. It'd taken weeks for Jon to realize Elias was meant to be the recipient of his thoughts and orders as well as his companion until the ritual could be accomplished. 

_It wasn't as obvious as you all thought,_ Jon thinks tersely. 

"If that makes you feel better," Elias says condescendingly. 

_... You're not ignoring me very well._

Elias pulls on the thread expertly, until Jon's mouth is nothing more than a thin line decorated in gold. Jon keens loudly in pain, and Elias waits for a satisfaction that refuses to come. Instead the ache in his chest worsens, and he genuinely can't tell if it comes from Jon or from himself. 

_You want it so badly to be from me._

"Shut up," Elias mutters. 

_It's not,_ Jon insists, relentless. It's in moments like these Elias is almost ready to fully believe the Elders had seen something in Jon that wasn't obvious to anyone else. _Do you want to know how I feel, right now?_ Jon is vicious.

"Don't _—_ "

The pain is abrupt and intense; Elias' lips are burning, each twist of the needle a new log in the neverending fire, but it's not what makes him gasp and drop the needle and they both know it.

It's quite the miracle, that someone as frail-looking as Jon can _feel_ so much. It's not only fear that drips out of him and hits Elias like a slap. It's a wave of heavy sadness, a melancholy for things he doesn't know at all but that Jon grew up with, in that other world outside the walls the Elders have built for them. Elias' hands clench over the ghost of a cat and the memory of a woman's laugh. His ears ring as he misses the taste of food — _proper_ , actual food, not the bloody statements — the inane words of TV presenters, the simple freedom of walking down the streets under a blanket of anonymity. 

More insidious still is the hope that accompanies it all; there's still a chance Jon can leave. He has seen the slow crack in Elias' heart, and he likes it. He likes _Elias_. It's hard now to define whether he has been pushed into it by awful circumstances, or if he would have grown to love him all the same, if they'd met in another place, in another life. But he knows he likes him, and more important, he knows that Elias likes him back.

It is only a matter of winning an argument, and Jon is _stubborn_. 

_We could be happy._ The thought is too loud in Elias' brain. _We could be outside, in my world, together, equals —_

Elias leans out of his chair, grabs Jon by the hair again, and kisses him. He revels in the physical pain, in the way it forces both their minds to veer away from the emotional one. It keeps him from having to tell Jon that he refuses to turn from his whole life, his whole purpose, his _God_ , only because Jon would rather be no one in the midst of other powerless nobodies. (It keeps him from thinking of the ridiculous, absurd, dangerous notion of doing it anyway. For no other reason than to make Jon happy. Isn't that what has always been expected of him, after all?) 

Jon's fingers are clinging to his shirt when Elias moves away again. Elias breathes, long and deep. 

"I hope you're proud of yourself," he only says. "I'm going to have to start again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one, I'm afraid, does not have yet any sort of other work published. But hey: they do make it out and learn to live in Jon's world! So there's that.


	4. HP AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Playing the idiot does not suit you," Jon retorted. "Nor does playing the victim."
> 
> _I already came here,_ he didn't say. _Can't you meet me halfway?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Context of the AU: Well I'm afraid I can't say much at this point; this is a HP AU where Elias is married to Peter, was for a long time a mentor to Martin as they grew up, and Jon is a Seer who'd had trouble controlling his powers most of his life and lives with Martin, Gerry and Tim. This scene technically comes at the end of another story that will exist one day, so.
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter** : Peter/Elias, Jon/Martin(/tim/gerry), and... that's pretty much it, really? Implied outside force making Elias and Jon yearn to touch one another.

"Does Martin know you're here?" Elias asked, still on the doorstep, the moment Peter had disappeared.

"Martin's my boyfriend, not my keeper," Jon snapped quietly, hands clenching over the chair. 

"That's a yes, then." Jon glared at him and Elias smiled. "Truly I prefer it, Jon. Meeting you in secret has its appeal, but I  _ am  _ keen on building back my relationship with him. It'd be quite a shame to utterly lose such a clever mind as his."

Jon spared a thought for Martin. Remembered the tension in his voice when he'd admitted in a whisper that he missed Elias too, a few nights back. Elias' eyes gleamed. 

"That wasn't for you," Jon told him immediately. 

"Wasn't it?" 

Jon thought of asking him to stay out of his mind; it felt as absurd as asking him to stop breathing, and instead he observed between his lashes the careful way Elias was holding himself. He still wasn't coming closer, and the distance ached. Every inch of Jon's body was screaming that this wasn't right, heart beating furiously against his chest as if to burst out of it to nestle in between Elias' ribs instead. He rubbed at it uncomfortably. 

"Have you been feeling better?" he asked. 

"Mostly," Elias said. "How are you doing? I assume you wouldn't come here without a reason."

"Playing the idiot does not suit you," Jon retorted. "Nor does playing the victim."

_ I already came here, _ he didn't say.  _ Can't you meet me halfway? _

Elias' face softened. "It cannot surprise you that I have some degree of pride left, Jonathan."

"God forbid you learnt to be vulnerable," Jon said sarcastically, and Elias laughed. 

It didn't sound particularly happy. He'd sounded happy, before, Jon recalled. There'd been plenty of late nights at the Institute, where Elias had leaned his head over his desk chair, tie loose and sleeves rolled up, cheeks warm from effort, and laughed with genuine joy behind it. Jon tried to tell himself that it wasn't his fault that this Elias had disappeared.

Guilt was pointless when he couldn't regret his choice at all. 

"I have been more honest with you than any other before," Elias said pointedly. He looked tired. "I did not enjoy where this got me. But you're right, of course. Neither guilt nor remorse is ever useful. Would you care for a drink?"

This was ridiculous. Blood was ringing in Jon's ears. "Fine," he muttered. "Please."

"The usual?"

"I suppose."

At last Elias fully stepped into the room; he went straight to his drink cabinet, and with no conscious thought of his own Jon slowly turned on his heels to follow him, like a moth to the flame. Sometimes it felt absurd that he'd never noticed beforehand. The intensity of that odd, nameless gravity between them seemed as inevitable and impossible to ignore as the power that grabbed him whenever he entered a trance. 

"It didn't used to be this way," Elias said without looking back at him, pouring fine firewhisky into two small glasses. 

"What do you mean?" 

"Well, as you've pointed out yourself before; we have lived a whole life apart, haven't we?"

"You haven't," Jon found himself answering. "Not really."

Elias' shoulders tensed, then slowly relaxed as he turned to face Jon again, expression closed off. "I appreciate your faith in me and my self-control," he told him, another closed-lipped smile crossing his face. "But I can assure you that if the pull had been as strong as it is now, I would have tried to reach out to you long before. Perhaps I would have even lingered in that corridor, back when we were boys."

Jon's skin prickled when Elias offered him the glass. He went to grab it, and their fingers brushed against each other. 

The glass crashed to the floor. 

"Oh god," Jon said weakly, and then he was crossing the shallow distance left with Elias, burying himself against him. At last it felt as if he could finally breathe properly as Elias embraced him tightly, cheek pressed against Jon's head.

They stayed like that for several minutes, racing heartbeats gently harmonizing with each other. If he'd been pressed to explain — and oh, had Tim pressed, after the last time Elias had shown up at their doorstep, looking half dead — he wouldn't have managed to fully put into words what it was like to be close to Elias like this. It wasn't like holding one of his boyfriends, or a friend or even a relative. It was more intimate and more casual all at once, like laying down in your childhood bed and breathing in the scents of infinite memories as you drifted into a comfortable sleep, knowing that there was nowhere as familiar and safe as this place. 

When Elias moved to press a lingering kiss to his brow, Jon sighed softly. 

"I wonder how it would have changed things," Elias murmured. "To have you younger."

"Suffocating," Jon answered truthfully. 

"Is your opinion truly so low of me, Jon?" Elias asked, his hand running into circles on Jon's lower back. 

Jon nuzzled his shoulder absent-mindedly. "This isn't about what I think of you. Can you truly tell me that you, of all people, would have enjoyed being so — entirely dependent on someone else?"

"You're not  _ someone else _ ."

"Elias."

"You aren't," Elias continued, firmly. "You'll never be." He kissed him again. "Though I suppose you're not entirely wrong. This might prove... bothersome, in the long run."

"Might prevent you from taking over the world?" Jon snarked. 

"At the very least slow me down, yes," Elias dead-panned, and Jon shouldn't have smiled at this, but his lips curled all the same against Elias' skin. "We should move. Peter might come back at any moment, and he does so dislike any form of affection."

"...I do not understand your marriage," Jon muttered. 

"I do not understand your family," Elias assured him. "... I  _ do  _ approve of Martin."

"I'm not telling him that."

"Of course; I dread to imagine his reaction. I have a spare bedroom, if that's agreeable to you."

"Fine," Jon said. "Fine."

He curled deeper into Elias' arms, fingers clenching in his robes, and let Elias apparate them wherever he wished. Once they were on stable ground again, he licked his lips, and finally found the will to raise his head and almost meet Elias' eyes. 

"We'll have to figure this out," he said.

"Yes," Elias said, and when he smiled, this time, it was genuine. "I'll be eager to work with you on a new mystery, Jonathan."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was incredibly hard to keep this spoiler free for the potential story that will one day be published in this universe, but I do hope it'll be worth it :p


	5. Thousands dates AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The way they all ask for you," Elias breathes eventually. "As if you belong in any way to them."
> 
> "You've arranged the party," Jon points out, but it's a weak attempt at best. He knows how Elias is, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Context of the AU: Jon is the Archivist, a creature aligned with the Eye but mostly neutral who basically acts as a battery of fear to avatars; everybody wants to tell him their story, everybody wants to be near him. Thing is, Jon became the Archivist rather abruptly, without knowing at all what it entailed, and ended up losing time and himself chasing after something he wasn't aware of (all the knowledge, all the fear, all the stories, everything), and running away terrorized from those people who kept finding him. Elias found him when he was all instincts and... slowly, patiently lurred him in his home. (And got him to stay there, with him managing his schedule for dates with all the different avatars wanting Jon.) 
> 
> **Warning(s) for this chapter** : Excessive possessiveness, implied permanent bondage, handjobs, Jon and Elias still very in love.

"You are glowing, my love," whispers Elias against his cheek.

"Mmh." 

Jon is too pleasantly full to master words; he lets his head fall on Elias' shoulder, lazily thrusting his arms around him as Elias scoops him up. It does feel good to be off his feet. Everybody, it seemed, had wanted a dance with him tonight _—_ he is exhausted the way he so rarely is these days, sheltered as he is by Elias' watchful rules. Still, he feels it when they pass the door to the library. Every volume in there sings a familiar melody that welcomes Jon's home, and he relaxes a little bit more still.

"Don't fall asleep just yet," Elias warns. 

Jon makes a noise of protest. Isn't it so very late? He could swear he'd seen a hint of the sun as they passed through the corridors of Elias' house. 

"They all had you but me," Elias says.

He's walked them to the marble bathroom and carefully sits Jon at the edge of the pristine bathtub. Jon blinks up at him, trying to parse through the aftermath of decadent fear and all in all a perfect evening, and grabs Elias' hand to press a kiss in the middle of his palm.

"You always have me," he says hoarsely. 

"I do." Elias smiles, bending to kiss his brow. "But it would be quite neglectful of me not to remind you after such a dazzling evening, wouldn't it?"

"I think," Jon retorts slowly, "that you are just a very possessive man."

Elias laughs. It's such a beautiful sound. If Jon wasn't so drunk on experiences right now, he would greedily ask for more. As it is, he settles for staring as Elias falls to his knees and, with a tenderness that still makes Jon's heart run too fast, grasps Jon's leg and works on taking off his shoes. His fingers dig gently into the skin as he does, sending shivers through Jon's entire body. Jon has to grasp hold of the bathtub, eyes fluttering with pleasure and sleepiness. Elias' hands slide slowly higher and massage his legs until Jon feels utterly and completely boneless.

When Elias helps him up once more, Jon moves to brush his lips against Elias' jaw. Elias undoes the buttons of Jon's dress, stroking his back as he does, and Jon shivers when the clothes fall at his feet in a puddle. He follows the movement easily when Elias tugs at his hair, lets himself be kissed, deep and intently, and finds himself moaning when Elias' hands tighten around his waist. 

"The way they all ask for you," Elias breathes eventually. "As if you belong in any way to them."

"You've arranged the party," Jon points out, but it's a weak attempt at best. He knows how Elias is, after all. 

"For you."

Jon's underwear follow the dress. He's not cold though; it's never cold in the bathroom, or indeed his Library — because some days Elias wants him just like this, fully bare for him and the Eye, but he never wishes for Jon to be uncomfortable. The thoughtfulness never fails to warm Jon's chest. 

"Would you even let me out, if I didn't need them?" he asks, even though he knows perfectly well the answer. 

"Never," Elias assures him, and — 

— Jon thinks of Georgie, who still frowns when her hand falls on the collar around his throat. He thinks of Gerry, who stays for dinner but calls Elias a creep, and he knows fully that he shouldn't enjoy Elias' certainty and desire for Jon's lack of freedom. But Gerry and Georgie were never stripped of their agency as thoroughly as Jon; they've never felt the pang of hunger that led Jon to be driven to wildness, to a state that barely allowed him to function at all in society anymore. Elias offered a cage and never pretended otherwise — and Jon is every day grateful for it all. Since he's agreed to it, he hasn't been lost a single day of his life. 

His mind is still a little bit slow tonight; it takes him a bit too long to realize that the water is running, and that Elias has wetted a warm towel. He tilts his head up just as Elias wishes, and lets him run the towel over his face, his neck, and his shoulders.

"No shower?" he asks a beat too late. 

"You're sleeping on your feet," Elias says. 

"I did warn you."

Elias does not dignify that with an answer. Instead, he lets the towel slide lower, until it's brushing against Jon's cock. Jon startles, gripping Elias' shirt, and Elias smiles, clearly pleased with himself. Jon's breath catches in his throat when Elias keeps on rubbing, up and down, the gestures familiar and well-practiced. By all means, Jon should be much too tired to grow hard from such gentle, if relentless movements, but he is still buzzing from the party underneath it all. 

"Elias," he whines.

Elias moves closer still, his free hand settling firmly on Jon's collar. 

" _Is_ this the party?" he asks, voice low and inquisitive. "Or me?"

"You," Jon admits, easily, freely, honestly. "Of course you."

"Good boy," Elias praises and grabs Jon's cock more firmly, making Jon keen. "You can come whenever you wish."

"Thank you," Jon says, because he's well trained. "Kiss me?" he adds, because he's also spoiled. 

His orgasm is slow to build; Elias' hand never falters, and his mouth finds Jon's indulgently, swallowing every noise that keeps escaping Jon's throat. When he finally comes, Jon feels his legs give out underneath him, and Elias catches him immediately. 

"I've got you," he murmurs.

Jon tries to find words; they've left him again. 

"It's alright," Elias says soothingly. "I'm taking care of everything, my love." 

_Can I sleep now?_ Jon asks in silence, knowing Elias hears anyway.

"Who gets to decide that?" Elias asks back. 

_You_ Jon thinks. 

"And why is that?" 

_Because I belong to you._

"Yes." Elias strokes his cheek, kissing the corner of his eye. "Yes, you do. My wild Archivist." 

Jon frowns. 

"Not so wild anymore," Elias amends immediately. "Perfectly domesticated, really. You'll wait a few more minutes, my love, won't you?" 

It's the hardest task in the world to keep his eyes open and nod, but Jon does it anyway.

It earns him another kiss, as well as Elias' arms back around him. He leads him back outside of the bathroom, patiently helping him along as Jon stumbles sleepily, and lets him stop once they reach the middle of the room, right next to the couch, to grab the thin, golden, enchanted chain laying there. 

"I'm glad you enjoyed yourself," Elias says. "Truly I am. You are never more beautiful than when you're like this, Jon." He caresses Jon's thigh and goes back to his knees, hand firm around Jon's calf. "But I think this was more than enough for at least a week or two, don't you?" 

Jon hums. Elias kisses his hip, and wraps the end of the chain over Jon's ankle. It closes with a small ringing noise. "Nowhere better than home for you," he says quietly, brushing his hand over the unbreakable bond before rising up once more. 

Jon opens his arms, keen to be carried again; he doesn't think he'll be able to climb the stairs leading to their bed on his own. Elias doesn't try to dissuade him. 

"Sleep," he says. "You're safe, Archivist."

Jon sighs contentedly, and lets his eyes flutter closed at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This AU ought to exist one day, go ask Fly all about Jon/the avatars, she's full of great, amazing ideas for them!


	6. Season 2 compliant AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm keen on watching you grow into your position, Jonathan. I did not lie to you when I offered you the job: I think you have every quality for it. I am, however, aware that too much of a good thing could potentially stunt your progress, and it looks like this is exactly what's happening right now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not quite a AU per say, just my personal fascination for season 2 and for Jon trying to seek peace, any sort of peace, even the most terrible one. 
> 
> **Warning(s) for this chapter** : non negotiated d/s scene ; non-sexual bondage ; dubious consent due to altered mental state ; can be read as abuse of authority ; Elias being at his Most Elias here ; Manipulation ; 
> 
> (feel free to tell me if i need to add more)

“Jon,” Elias says from across the desk, “I am not your enemy.”

He certainly doesn't look like it, Jon admits to himself tiredly. Elias is exactly as he's always been, sitting behind his desk with a mild expression that says nothing at all of his true feelings. But Jon's first instinct is still to bite. 

"You're certainly not _helping_ ," he snaps. 

Elias sighs. A few months ago, Jon would have tortured himself at the idea that Elias is _disappointed_ in him. It still stings, but it's buried underneath another, new layer of fear and vindication. Jon can feel his hands shaking with anticipation and dread. _Tell me you were wrong_ , he wants to beg. _Tell me you know I'm not fit for this._ His heart is racing in his chest. _Tell me you have to fire me._

(This feels like a forbidden, dark wish. Jon can't bear to ask for it, can't bear to assume the fact he was never ready for this and doesn't _want_ a job from which you cannot escape the danger of very real, terrifying monsters. But it would be so different, if Elias said it. Jon would still be found lacking, but he would be _free_ . Free of the paranoia, of the constant weight of _whatever_ is watching him, even now. If he could just _rest_ , sleep without nightmares, then maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to get his life back together and —)

"I want to," Elias says quietly. Jon startles hard. 

"What?"

"I thought I was helping," Elias continues. "I tried to soothe the tension between you and your employees. I provided you with our security footage. I even caved in to your incredibly dangerous desires to explore whatever lays beneath the Institute. Apparently, this hasn't been enough for you."

"So what?" Jon's nails dig into his wrist. "I'm beyond help?"

"Jon," Elias chides. The fondness and indulgence in his voice is almost enough to make Jon break all together. A warm and unwanted reminder that Elias, for some obscure reason, _likes_ him. "I merely think I misjudged what you truly needed."

"Answers?" 

"A lesson." 

This is it, Jon thinks wildly, heart in his throat, and suddenly the thought of being cut off from the Institute is so much worse than being trapped in it. Does he really think that he'll be safer, once he doesn't work here anymore? Does he really think that he'll be able to _let it all go_ ? A cold shiver runs down his spine. He can't just leave. He can't. Where else will he be able to _know_ — 

His mouth is too dry as he watches Elias slowly get up. Why is Elias getting up? 

"What are you doing?" he asks, or rather stammers. 

Elias glances at him, calmly rolling up his sleeves to his elbow. The fear that pulses through Jon's stomach changes all together. He is suddenly, acutely aware that Elias has been on the top of his list of suspects for the murder of Gertrude from the start. That he has been here the longest, and that he's still the one most likely to have a _plausible_ motive. It strikes Jon abruptly, a little hysterically, that maybe at the Magnus Institute, Head Archivists don't get _fired_. They get murdered and tossed into tunnels and forgotten about until they might or might not be discovered — 

"Whatever you're thinking," Elias tells him, "I assure you what I've planned is nowhere near as drastic." 

When he moves around the desk to come closer, Jon scrambles up to take a few steps back. 

_"What are you doing?"_ he asks again, forcefully. 

Elias stills; for half a second, he looks surprised. Then, to Jon's utter bafflement, he licks his lips and smiles at him, a hint of pride coloring his voice when he answers: 

"I'm keen on watching you grow into your position, Jonathan. I did not lie to you when I offered you the job: I think you have every quality for it. I am, however, aware that too much of a good thing could potentially stunt your progress, and it looks like this is exactly what's happening right now."

"I — I don't understand —"

"Of course." Elias says kindly. "Get on your knees, if you please."

" _What_?" 

"Or would you like to discuss a safeword first, perhaps?"

"I — I —" 

The situation has so thoroughly escaped Jon's hands he doesn't know what to do. His shock is fighting against his terror, and he just stares as Elias nods as if Jon had managed to give him any sort of coherent answer. This has to be a trick, his instincts scream at him. Or — and he can't tell if it's worse — he's been expecting a murderer and instead he is suddenly faced with a much darker, more insidious facet of a man he'd admired for so many years. Trust Jon to manage to survive monsters only to be caught in _sexual harassment_. 

His body catches up to the situation only when Elias' hand — warm, firm — curls around the back of his neck and _pulls_ on his hair. Jon yelps, legs buckling, and Elias' other hand comes to rest against his mouth. 

"When is the last time you've slept?" Elias asks. "When is the last time you took the time to breathe?"

Jon feels a hysterical laugh bubble in his chest. He'd like to answer, he thinks, but he physically _can't_. 

... He can't. 

"I'm offering you some respite," Elias continues, as if reading his mind. "Let me handle things for a little while. Nothing untoward, I promise. I will merely tie you up and take care of you until you've realized you're in no danger in this room. All I ask from you in return is to _obey_ when I ask something."

In all the bad ideas Jon has been pursuing these past few months, this feels like one of the most terrible so far. Elias seems too sure of himself to have thought of this on the spot, which means he's planned for this, like he plans for everything else. It's quite possible _Tying up my head archivist_ was on his schedule for the day. Unless it's a weird game leading to Jon's murder. Or a weird game leading to Jon being more traumatized. Whatever this is, there is absolutely no reasonable explanation, and Jon should step out of the embrace and run away.

But he is so _tired_ . Elias smells good, this close, and his grip is only deceptively gentle. It's easy to imagine it tightening if Jon tried to protest or fight. It's easier still to see Elias _as_ his enemy, right now; only in this scenario hasn't Jon already long lost?

He hasn't properly decided yet whether he wants to scream or push Elias away when he falls quietly to his knees. Elias accompanies his fall easily, as if he'd known from the start Jon would cave in. It makes Jon flush with embarrassment, until Elias' thumb brushes over his cheek. 

"Very good," he murmurs, and a shiver of pleasure runs down Jon's spine. 

He realizes he's trembling when Elias, after one last stroke of his hair, straightens up again. Jon tenses, unsure of what to do, watching his every movement. His tongue tingles with the bitterness of terror as Elias locks the door of the office then goes to his cabinet and retrieves, of all things, delicate, silky blue rope. Jon's breath hitches in his throat. 

"Why do you even have this?" he blurts out. 

He wishes he could move; instead his fingers curl and uncurl on his lap. His bad leg is already protesting the position he's in. He's left to stare some more as Elias throws a quick smile at him, like they share a private joke: "We never know from where the danger can come. I do my best to keep my eyes out, but it doesn't hurt to be prepared. Hands behind your back."

Jon's arms are heavy; it's as if he's been drenched in cold water and he cannot stop _shaking_ . Still, numbly, distantly, he realizes that he's obeying. Elias moves behind him, and Jon tries to keep _looking_ but Elias tuts, and he feels the ghost of a kiss on the top of his head, before Elias' hands are back on his skin. Contrary to Jon, it seems as if he is burning. He's careful and efficient as he ties Jon's wrists together first, then binds them to his ankles. Once in a while, he whispers a praise, his breath warm against Jon's ear. Jon's heart is pounding so loudly he barely hears them.

Once he's seemingly done, Elias doesn't move immediately. He tugs on the rope, once, twice, and lets his fingers dance over the edge of Jon's tense shoulders. 

"Go on," he says. "Try to get out of it."

Jon wishes he could see his face. His throat is so tight that, for a moment, he's not sure he'll be able to speak.

"I thought —" he begins. He coughs. His voice is weak and hoarse. "I thought the point was that I couldn't."

"Smart boy," Elias laughs quietly. A spike of heat rushes down Jon's lower body, unexpected amidst the fear. He flushes deeper as Elias' arms come around him in a parody of an embrace. "But deep down, you still expect that you should be able to. That if you do fight, I will let you go. That I haven't tied you up tight enough on purpose." His lips ghost over Jon's chin. "I want you to realize that this isn't true, Jonathan. I want to watch you when you realize you will not escape this."

It's an odd time to realize there is a difference between the fear that creeps down your bones until it is almost a familiar foe, living under your skin like it belongs there, holding your breath in the expectation of something that might never come, and blind panic. 

Jon pulls on his arms, and the rope which had seemed, indeed, loose enough, tightens immediately. Months of terrors should have prepared him for this; for the penny dropping at last as he struggles harder, rendered clumsy and helpless by his entrapment. He'd once been a reasonable man, he thinks wildly; but any reasonable argument is distant, muted behind the horror and relief of finally being confronted with the situation he's been so scared of all this time. 

"Let me go," he stammers. "Let me go."

"Oh, never, my dear. Never."

Elias' palm covers his mouth again a second before Jon starts to scream, thrashing ineffectively against his bonds. All he manages to do is fall against Elias' chest, nose buried into Elias' upper arm. He keeps on yelling as Elias embraces him properly.

It's thoroughly useless, but it feels good in a strange, surreal way, to express it all at last. There is nobody to hurt with his words here, nobody to lash out against. He is not hurting Elias, Elias is hurting him, and Jon's allowed to be scared. Jon's allowed to scream until his throat is raw and burning; until there is no sound left in him anymore and he starts sobbing instead, heavy tears flowing from his eyes like they'd been waiting to fall for a decade. 

When was the last time he'd cried? He can't remember. 

"There we go," Elias says, and it sounds smug and elated to Jon's ears. "My beautiful archivist. So readily stepping into what will endanger you." With his free hand, he starts petting Jon's side. "I could do anything to you right now, Jon." he tells him. "If I had ropes, then why shouldn't I have a knife? Or — this isn't how Gertrude was killed, was it? I must have a gun. If nobody has come in spite of your screams, then why would they for a gunshot?" Jon barely realizes that he's being moved until Elias is holding his chin up, freeing his mouth once more. "Or I could do worse, of course," he continues, voice silky like he is making a love confession. "I could merely open the door again. Sit back down behind my desk and let you down here. Let them come and do whatever they wish to you." He brings their foreheads together, caressing with utter gentleness the worm scars peppered over Jon's jaw and throat. "Let them hurt you and terrorize you and just _drink it all in without doing anything at all for you._ "

Why is it this that breaks him? Jon doesn't know; Jon can't think; Jon can't _breathe_ _._ He is robbed of everything as Elias' lips brush against his. A vague, high noise pierces through his ears and then everything seems to fall quiet. He is still crying — the tears are salty on his tongue — but he can't _feel it_. Is the fear too much? Has he already died, and he's only caught in the last seconds of his life? There is no telling anymore.

He slumps completely against Elias again. Elias' hand goes back into his hair. Elias might still be speaking, but he is not moving from here. There is no knife. There is no gun. There aren’t even wandering, unwanted fingers anywhere. Elias is not leaving. Elias is rocking him, ever so slightly. Jon takes a gentle, careful breath, and for a beautiful, fragile moment, he knows with the deepest certainty that he is safe. Elias won't harm him. Elias won't let anybody else have him either. 

"Yes," Elias says. His voice is warm and far away still, and it's as if he's answering all of Jon's sparse, relieved thoughts. "You're too exquisite, Jon. You will be perfect. You are doing so, so well. Why would I ever want you gone?" 

Why would he ever want to go? Jon ponders, inhaling Elias' cologne. Above him, Elias chuckles fondly. 

"Gorgeous thing," he tells him. "My perfect archivist. There will come a day, I promise you, when you'll be able to feel like this all the time."

Jon should frown; question this, perhaps. But everything is so soft right now; even the curiosity is dimmed and gentle. He sighs as Elias wipes away another of his tears. 

"You make me greedy," Elias whispers fondly. "I do not recall being so impatient before you came along, Jonathan. But let's not break tonight's success too quickly. It's time for you to sleep, Archivist. You know I've got you."

Yes. Jon does know. It's surprisingly easy to close his eyes. But then again, Elias is not the enemy. Elias could hurt him, and he _isn't_. Where else than in his arms will Jon be able to find rest?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then Jon falls half asleep against Elias, and it feels good, and he learns to crave that feeling of peace, and therefore he keeps coming back to him even once he really knows better --
> 
> Actually, you know what, this could actually fit in the same universe of this other story I wrote, which you'll be able to find [ here ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25676266)


	7. Jon/Peter AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Odd little thing you are," Peter comments. "Elias will be angry at me, eventually."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Context of this AU: ???. Far as I got, Jon has decided the best way to free himself from the Eye and Elias for a little while was to "spend time" with Peter
> 
> **warnings for this chapter** : Extreme objectification ; sort of orgasm denial ; implied jonelias ; consensual but implied threat of non-con ; sensory deprivation ; implied Jon doing this at first in a perhaps self-harm way ;

It's quiet here. It's so quiet. Jon knows that eventually he will start missing sounds. Martin's incredulous but happy snorts and Daisy's playful growls; the Admiral purring. Elias. Elias most of all. He knows this with absolute certainty, as if his chest is already aching with the bruise to come. But this is for an indeterminate future Jon to worry about. Here, in this instant, Jon lives only in the present, in a world made of Peter's rough hands circling his throat and digging into his thigh to keep Jon's legs spread open. 

Peter fucks him roughly but without intent. He fucks Jon like he's nothing more than a convenient hole, seems to not care whether it's pleasurable for him at all. Jon's body is thrumming with a mix of over stimulation and neglect, and the pain of being so thoroughly ignored is only soothed by the relief of not being seen, or worse,  _ known  _ in any way. If Peter looks at him, Jon can't tell; his own eyes are closed under his thick blindfold, and Peter's gaze would probably graze over him like the ghost of a touch, anyway. Nothing substantial; Nothing like — 

Jon is shaken abruptly when Peter groans and sighs, burying himself deep into him before coming. Jon's cock lays hard and untouched, and Jon's fingers twitch in their bonds as he shudders with impossible yearning. He doesn't gasp; he doesn't try speaking; he bites his lip, hard, and a few tears escape when Peter moves away abruptly and leaves him empty and gaping. 

"Had enough yet, Archivist?" Peter asks, breaking into the peace. 

Jon breathes. In and out. 

Jon shakes his head no. 

Peter makes a small, considering sound. It might be contempt or it might be amusement. Jon dismisses immediately the idea that it could be anything surprised or fond. 

"Odd little thing you are," Peter comments. "Elias will be angry at me, eventually."

It can't truly be bothering him, however, because a moment later he is pushing a heavy plug back into Jon. By now, Peter has done this enough times that Jon is starting to feel stuffed with come, even as his chest grows colder and emptier with each round. The tips of Peter's fingers brush over his cock, an accident, certainly, and then he — disappears? Or maybe not. If Jon strains his ears, he's sure he can hear the crinkling of sheets, or the steps of Peter on the hardwood floor of the cabin. 

He doesn't have the will, the energy, nor in fact the desire to know any of that, though. Jon revels in that terrible, monstrous uncertainty, the terrifying fact that he cannot know what is happening and what it will mean next. He probably wouldn't even have been able to tell they were on the Tundra, if it hadn't been for the endless stretching time of nothingness, being lulled into a gentle, mindless state by the rocking of the sea. By now the only anchors he has left are this: the plug, bigger every time Peter puts it back in. The bed, on which he's casually thrown when Peter comes and uses him. And the chest where Jon is put away in between, locked in and utterly forgotten for hours on end, until Peter feels the urge for skin. 

(Which isn't every time he is aroused, Jon has learnt. The first time he realized that Peter was jerking off above his head and had no intention of letting Jon out, it had dawned on Jon with abrupt, icy clarity that he truly was nothing more to this ghost of a man than a fancy stolen toy to be played with on a whim. In the chest Jon still couldn't use his hands, but he'd pressed his thighs together and sobbed silently — had it been horror or elation? Even now he still isn't sure.)

There's comfort in the uncaring routine of it all, and it's easy to lay on the bed now and wait for Peter to carry him back into the chest. He hopes he will sleep. Even his dreams are muffled beneath the fog here, just enough to live by without bringing any sick pleasure with them.

Most would scoff at the vindictiveness that Jon feels every time he refuses the Eye's gifts to feed another god instead, but there is a choice in this that he never got to have with anything else. With  _ anyone  _ else. He spares a thought for Elias, and the knowledge that Elias cannot hear it, cannot grasp at it, cannot gently twist it beneath his piercing all knowing eyes brings him much more satisfaction than any mere orgasm or statement could. 

He realizes he is almost smiling when Peter's hands abruptly appear again. They grab Jon's body like he's a doll, and it takes a few seconds for Jon to realize that he is not being carried, only manhandled into a different position. When his nose meets hair and cold skin, he starts to frown -- then it's his legs, brushing over Peter's pants, and his arms that are pulled from behind him, the chains binding them falling with a muffled sound against the sheets, and Jon panics. 

" _ What are you doi— _ " He tries to ask, voice weak and rough from being silent for so long. 

He doesn't get to finish the question, or even know if his power would still work here.. Peter immediately drags him back slightly upwards by the hair and slaps him hard, making Jon gasp. 

"We have an agreement," Peter reminds him. "Another word and I'm throwing you into the sea, Archivist. I'm sure whatever's in there will deal with you long before anything else finds you."

He wouldn't, Jon thinks, cheek prickling with pain. They both know they're already in dangerous waters; that if Jon dies here, then Peter will surely know the same fate the moment he is within the Eye's territory again. But he's not  _ sure _ . There is no way to know what Peter might do, not ever, and Jon went to him specifically for this. Peter is not going to indulge Jon's itches, Peter will never answer to Jon's  _ whys _ . 

Jon was hoping he wouldn't even want to ask, after a while. Toys don't question their owners. Try as he might though, he cannot entirely wash away his own nature.

Peter lets him fall back against his chest when Jon stays silent, possibly considering the matter over. Jon wants to know what the hell he thinks he’s doing. He nuzzles Peter's chest hair and cannot help but sigh when Peter's fingers run through his hair and trail over his naked back, leaving goosebumps behind them. 

"There," Peter murmurs. "That's a good boy."

_ Don't _ , a part of Jon wants to scream. This is not their arrangement; this is not what they  _ are _ . The other part just melts deeper against his owner. It would appear, against all good sense, that they are cuddling. The hysteria of this sudden change of pace is kept at bay by Peter's nails scratching him behind the ear. 

It is just as quiet, and once Jon's mind and heart have settled once more, it's even pleasant. The boat rocks. Peter keeps on stroking him, idle, silent, barely present at all. 

Jon's eyelids are heavy behind the blindfold. The next time Peter passes a hand through his hair, he makes a small, contented noise. 

"Huh." Peter does it again, almost carefully, and Jon feels that boneless, mindless peace settle once more, even if he is not locked in the chest at all. "Perhaps I won't ask again," Peter tells — not Jon, not really; tells the cabin; tells the fog surrounding them. "Perhaps I'm just going to keep you. Serve Elias just right, letting his own pet wander around like that. I don't have much, but what's mine is mine and I like you, little thing."

_ He wouldn't _ , Jon thinks again. He wouldn't. 

But he cannot be sure, and there is exquisite fear in the next stammering beats of his clenched heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I do not, in fact, ship Jon/Peter. Incidentally, this fic was the first one of the eight that I wrote. The scene came to me as half a dream as I was waking up, I sat down that morning and wrote it all in one go.


	8. Interlinked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Context of this chapter: How does one explain Interlinked-archives? In a word made of Sorcerers but also the Fears, there exist people who can become "archives" -- if they get one encounter with a fear, it unlocks that potential, and they become an insatiable source of knowledge; those people are considered literal furniture and get bound (by force, basically all the time) to sorcerers and others who become their "Archivist". Jon was a particular Archive, Jonah went "I want this one", then spent the first seventy years of his life taming Jon, and then they both spent the remaining centuries together awkwardly falling in love and unable to express it properly, of course, since Jon is considered to be Jonah's possession. 
> 
> [back in the present day, after a series of plot things, Jonah also bind Martin and Tim as his Archives, gets into his worst argument ever with Jon, gets a redemption arc sort of, and decided to finally die of a natural death; jon martin and tim are bound to the institute, and get to actually live their lives as human beings and all.]
> 
> This is. Such a short summary but guys. This AU? Has every flavour of Jonelias you enjoy depending the century. Or almost. I suppose there isn't any sort of Elias-worshipping-Jon flavour, sorry. BUT It's so good. (Okay, I'm biased, I first came up with the original idea but lISTEN it's HONESTLY SO PERFECT). 
> 
> **warnings for this chapter** : dehumanization ; strongly internalized dehumanization ; suicidal idealization ; depressive character that is not acknowledged by either party to be depressive ; somehow still incredibly soft jonelias despite all of this ; One person having full ownership of another ; Could be read as Stockholm/Lima Syndrome.

Jon's eyes are vacant today, like they've been for the past week. He's not tucked away in his library so deep that a hand on his shoulder or a sharp word won't bring him back immediately, but after a hundred years, Jonah knows the signs. It irritates him. It's not that Jon won't leave the bed until pressed, or that he seems to go through the motions at best (after all, Jon is a tool, and tools aren't expected to do anything other than obey;) it's that every time he does as such, Jonah feels acutely that Jon is specifically hiding away from _him_ the only way he can. Shielding emotions and stubbornness and ridiculous, clever retorts to whatever Jonah does, and turning into nothing more than those dull, interchangeable Archives the world is full of. 

If Jonah had wanted a boring Archive that he could forget in between two books when he was not using it, he would have gotten one. Jon is unique, one of its kind — and Jonah supposes it's up to its Archivist to remind it of that, sometimes. He’d learnt long ago there was no point getting mad at Jon's little slip-ups.

"Well?" he asks now, pointedly. 

" _Fine_ ," Jon mutters tiredly. "What is this, Jonah?"

"Our new home," Jonah answers. 

Jon blinks. Once, twice; then, at last, he seems to properly wake up. Takes in the flat with wide eyes, dark cursive letters running along his skin as he records all he sees unprompted. Something uncoils in Jonah's stomach and he smiles, low and pleased.

"We have a home," Jon says at last, after a minute or two. He sounds baffled. 

"You know as well as me it's starting to be impossible to navigate London by car," Jonah tells him. "We'll keep the house, but I've got too much work at the Institute to add an hour long journey in the morning and in the evening." 

"I'm surprised you're not moving us _into_ the Institute then," Jon snarks, and Jonah's smile widens. 

He should punish the impertinence, of course. He should.

"I've not yet renounced a private life, pet. Surely you're quite aware of that by now," he says instead. "Speaking of which —"

He grabs Jon's wrist, pulling him closer. The radio is playing some lovely waltz, and they both know their steps by heart. He only needs to nudge Jon a little bit until Jon raises a hand to his shoulder while Jonah's arm comes around his waist. The living room is more than large enough to dance, and Jonah presses his cheek against Jon's, brushing his lips over the edge of his ear.

"This is a much smaller place," he tells him. "The housekeeper will merely come twice a week, and the cook has already been made aware she's to prepare the week-end meals in advance."

Jon stills a moment; then he exhales slowly, and hides his head into the crook of Jonah's neck in silence, brushing his nose up and down in that charming, affectionate habit of his. Jonah kisses the top of his hair, satisfied, and gently sets to make them both dance again. He's always enjoyed a good waltz, and Jon, of course, is a perfect, practiced dancer. Jonah almost wants to close his eyes — all of them — and savour only the music and his archive for a few minutes; perhaps even a few hours. He might be growing too indulgent towards himself; but isn't that supposed to be one of the advantages of immortality? _Living in the present moment._

"Don't you ever get tired?" Jon whispers against his skin, and Jonah's smile freezes. 

"Of what?" he asks mildly.

"This," Jon sighs. "Everything. The world, our lives, just — everything."

"Why would I?" Jonah retorts. "There are always so many things to observe and to live through. I don't think we've ever had a boring year yet."

Jon makes a small, muffled noise that might be laugh, or a scoff. He takes a step back, away from Jonah's embrace, and looks up at him with those same striking, gorgeous eyes Jonah was always fascinated by.

"But won't you get tired _one day?_ " he asks, and it sounds almost like a plea.

Jonah knows what he is truly begging for, of course; it seems to be what Jon goes back to every time. He's never once begged for his freedom back since his last failed attempt to run away, almost seventy years ago now. He'd stopped trying to argue his humanity to Jonah long before that. But every few years — it used to be decades — he implies _this_ instead. That there might be an end to it all. That one day Jonah will just _accept_ death. 

"Must we, Archive?"

Jon winces. But he is stubborn — he always was, damn thing. "It doesn't matter that the bodies are new," he says, so perfectly earnest. "The weight must be here, surely you feel it too —"

"Do you know why you feel so heavy?" Jonah cuts him off. 

"I —"

"You are filled to the brim with the most interesting, terrifying, brilliant stories and memories of the last hundreds of years. You are the most complete and genuine record of our history. You are more beautiful and important than any museum of this city, Jonathan."

Jon flushes; it creeps under his collar, dark enough to almost hide the ink that peppers his face; sentences that are mostly meaningless to Jonah without any context, though he catches his name, several times. Good. He lets go of Jon's waist to gently cup his cheek, brushing his thumb over the bridge of his nose. 

"We don't burn our museums, do we? We don't let them crumble to dust. So there must always be someone to preserve what is inside of them. To take care of them; to add to them; to make sure that all they have never, ever disappears."

"Jonah," Jon breathes. It's so quiet. 

Jonah's other hand settles over Jon's collar. He leans in and kisses the corner of Jon's eye. 

"Tell me what you want, Jon, and it's yours. What will bring you back to me?"

This can only be spoken in a whisper; low, secretive, perhaps shameful. But Jonah's had a long history of not digging too deep into this. Surely one must make concessions to the norm with an Archive like Jon. Besides which, isn't he, after all, an extension of Jonah's own soul? He cannot be blamed for wanting Jon to be _happy_ with their existence. 

Jon hesitates. He could fight more, they both know it. He could ruin their lovely afternoon with a few well-chosen words. But of course, like Jonah, he doesn't want to, not really. Words flow over every part of him, mismatched, fumbling, disappearing mostly too fast for Jonah to read them. It's unimportant. Today Jonah wants them directly from Jon's lips. 

"Tell me again," Jon settles on, eventually, softly. 

He is embarrassed, Jonah notes. He raises his eyebrows. "Which part?"

"That I'm —" Jon's voice falters. "Remind me," he tries again. "Keep reminding me that I'm —"

"Beautiful?" Jonah finishes for him. Jon shivers. "Important? Useful? _Priceless_?"

Jon stares at him through his lashes, breathing faster. Jonah strokes his hair. 

"Oh my dear, dear Archive," he murmurs. "We have been together for so long, and you are still the most surprising thing I possess."

"Please," Jon whispers. "Keep —"

"Of course," Jonah cannot resist it this time and swallows Jon's noises with a brief, deep kiss. "You are all mine, and you are perfect. There is none like you and there will never be."

Jon throws his arms around him abruptly in a rare show of impulse and initiative. He presses himself fully against Jonah, and Jonah embraces him back after a second, running a soothing hand over Jon's spine when he realizes he is shaking. 

"I'm so proud of what you've become," he says. "You have never ceased to grow more incredible. Any man would kill to have you, and not a day goes without me being so pleased I got you first."

Jon has asked for something so easy. Jonah doesn't need to lie at all. And if underneath it all, buried deep somewhere Jonah has no intention to explore, there is yet another truth, well — 

"Thank you," Jon tells him. "It's. It's a lovely flat."

— Well, nobody ever has to acknowledge it and make things much too complicated for everyone. 

"You've merely seen the first room, pet," he answers. "I believe if you keep on being so sweet, I'll show you the bedroom next."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who has been following those stories and commenting; it means really a lot, I thought this was going to be mostly a Fly and I's party in here <3\. 
> 
> Darling, one last time: Happy Hanukkah. I hope you love this last chapter as much as the other ones.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like this universe, and enjoy martin/jon/elias, if you are awfully fond of the Noir genre and you've been dying to read excellent Noir Metaphors like they don't make it anymore, PLEASE rush to read Blackwood Investigations at once.  
> For more Jonelias being married in this verse, I can only warmly recommend you go read A Nice Neighborhood to Have Bad Habits In ;


End file.
